


tell me if i go too far

by cicadas



Series: magnets [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Face Slapping, Flashbacks, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Domestic Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Safeword Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 08:50:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14766410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadas/pseuds/cicadas
Summary: They'd discussed this. They'd discussed Peter breaking open the door, dragging Wade out by force and taking him, but discussion and actuality were very different things.





	1. Chapter 1

They'd set up the room hours before. TV off, phones on silent and in the drawer of Peter's makeshift lab - a spare bedroom he'd filled with all his science nerd gear. Dinner was leftover pozole stored in the oven, ready for them to eat once they were done playing.

Wade was prepped. He had showered for an obscenely long amount of time waiting for Peter to get home, giving his skin a once over with Peter's aloe soap bar before setting to work with his fingers. He slid the plug in whilst in the shower, wincing a little at the stretch. Pete always made sure he was stretched and pliant, completely ready before fucking him, but Wade was impatient. Water ran down his back and over the plastic base of the plug, not helping soothe the burn at all. Probably still aloe lingering on his skin. Apparently the shit was good for sunburn. Funny.

Wade turned the taps off and stepped out of the shower. He was meticulous in drying his skin - new scars were forming around his elbows and behind his knees - those always stung like a bitch. He didn't want to aggravate them with the rough fabric of the towel. Peter had offered to buy new ones, saying they might help even a little, but Wade refused. He knew the creams and balms and hippie ointments Pete brought home were well-meant, but none of them did anything. The money was wasted on him.

Outside the bathroom door there was a thud, then the sound of keys landing on the benchtop.  
The footsteps that headed towards the bathroom were quiet. Peter must have taken his shoes off. They grew heavier the closer they got to the door, and then-

"Wade? You in there, baby?"

The response caught in his throat, and Wade froze. The doorknob jittered, back and forth, clinking as the metal hit the lock Wade had clicked into place over half an hour ago. (Out of habit--there was no-one around to see him, to try and touch him while he showered, but he just had to. Just so he knew that door would stay shut, and he would stay unseen).  
The doorknob shook once more, then fractured completely as the door burst open, cracking the drywall on impact. Peter's face was almost unrecognisable as he approached Wade, eyes dark and face blank. He looked...scary.

 

They'd discussed this. They'd discussed Peter breaking open the door, dragging Wade out by force and _taking_ him, but discussion and actuality were very different things.

Peter was frightening. He gripped Wade's shoulder and upper arm like a fucking vice, forcing him up and out of the bathroom, into the lounge where the curtains were drawn and the lamps cast a yellow light shadow over their sparse furniture. Wade assumed his position on the cushion he'd placed down himself in the middle of the room.  
Peter stood in front of him, somehow so much taller, so much more intimidating than he's ever seen him be as Spider-Man, and Wade dropped his head. Arms locked behind his back, knees together resting on the flat cushion.

"You look so pretty like this, Wade." Peter said, and Wade fought the urge to look up. To watch his eyes as he spoke. He had to be good. Kept his head bowed, eyes to the floor, and let Peter's words sink into the back of his head.

"So pretty, baby, but that's just me, isn't it? Only my eyes see how sweet you are underneath all this. Only I could love what's underneath this skin" A hand swept over the nape of his neck, and Wade shivered.  
The droplets of water he didn't wipe away trickled down his legs and pooled at his toes, seeping into the fabric. Peter's words chased the feeling along his skin. The new wounds at the join of his knee ached.

(They'd discussed the words Peter would and wouldn't say, and Wade had agreed to every suggestion his baby boy came up with, no limitations.)

The first slap took Wade completely by surprise. Pete threw the force of his mutation into his left arm and swung it, fingers grazing Wade's cheekbone as he pulled back. That same hand immediately caressed his stinging cheek, pinching and rubbing just a little too hard to be comforting.  
"You're mine, Wade. Only mine." Peter slapped him again, lightly, same cheek. "Say it."

"I'm yours, sir." Wade responded.

"And only I find you beautiful, isn't that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what are you to the rest of the world, baby?"

(They'd discussed this, too; The degradation, the mean words--words Peter would never say under normal circumstances--the slaps that forced them into his skull)

Wade took a heaving breath, held it, then answered. "I'm ugly."

_Slap._

His face burned twice as bad as it had before - Peter had hit the same place, doubled his strength, and Wade had to fight to keep his face still.

"Yes _what,_ Wade?"

"I'm ugly, sir."

Peter smiled. It didn't look at all like his Peter's goofy smile. It was cold, and twisted his features. "Good boy."

Those words were welcome. The chill the water had left was replaced by a shiver of heat that spread from his burning face, down to the wide base of the plug in his ass. It wasn't his favourite - a little too wide, too big to ever become comfortable, but the perfect size to keep him stretched enough for Peter to slide right in once it had been lubed up and taken out.

The phantom hand against his cheek moved away, and Wade closed his eyes in anticipation. The blow came later than Wade expected, and the force of it brought tears up to the waterline of Wade's eyes, threatening to spill over at any moment. The tingles in his cheek spread and Wade shivered, hating the effect the hit had on his body and wanting more at the same time.

Peter stood, stretched, and hit him again. Other cheek, harder blow, blood rushing to palm and face at the same time, like they were one unit.  
"What are you worth, Wade?" He said, voice low, deep, the only thing heard in the quiet of the living room.

(They'd discussed this. They'd discussed this part, too, but-)

_Slap._

"Nothing, Wade! You're worth nothing! You're not wanted by anyone other than me. You're-

_You're nothing, Martha! You're fucking nothing! You think 'cause you got pregnant--_

"I'm the only one who loves you, baby. I'm the only one who could ever love you. You're mine, Wade" Peter hit the words into the scars of his face with two quick slaps, one on each side of his face. Nails scratched where his hairline would be with lingering fingers.

_Nothing Nothing Nothing-_

Wade tensed against the plug, uncomfortable now that the lubricant had spread down his legs, away from his hole. The sting on his face didn't subside, instead burning along with the words Peter spoke. They were real, alive, digging their way into his pores like the cancer cells digging away at his skin. It wasn't the heat he imagined when they thought up this scenario, kissing and giggling over pizza and soap re-runs. Not the same sting. Not at all.

 

Another slap hit his face, and Wade folded into himself. The word--their word--flits down from his brain onto his tongue, but he couldn't seem to say it. Not yet. It's not too bad, it's not, let it play out, Pete will make it better, it'll--

He's naked, he can feel it, each pore, each inch of skin on display for the only man he'd ever trust to see it, but--

_You're stupid. You're fucking useless. You expect me to take care of this fucking kid after you're fuckin' dead? I pay for a headstone for your fuckin' corpse and then I have some kid to pay for after? This kid ain't worth shit to me, Martha, you hear? You die and he's good as the fuckin' dirt! He's worth fuckin' dirt!--_

 

_Slap._

"Wade."

He was asked a question. Knew it because the tone in Peter's voice indicated he was waiting for something.  
Even through the haze his subspace was trying to bring him down to he could recognize concern, but he couldn't seem to respond to it. His limbs were heavy. His body was stiff. He couldn't move if he wanted to. Wade looked up, and his eyes met Peter's. His Peter. Who would never, never hurt him. Ever.

"Wade. Answer me. What are you?"

(They thought it'd be therapeutic-)

"I'm nothing." The words cut his throat as he said them. It wasn't a game anymore. "I'm nothing, sir."

Wade was down. Way down, where his limbs felt numb and his tongue wouldn't move in his mouth.

"That's right, baby" Peter said, but his voice was barely registered. Soft, baby-skin fingertips weren't felt on his face. Knees hit the hard floorboards underneath the pillow, and the ache headed it's way up Wade's limbs. (It's not-) "You're as good as dirt to anyone but me."  
  
He couldn't speak. The word was right there but he couldn't form it. It was in his head, on his tongue, but it settled and didn't spill out. Stop it. Please, stop it.

"You're nothing, Wade."

_You're nothing--_

 

The muscles in his throat ached (Peter had rejected his suggested word, said it was too 'silly' to be used seriously), he swallowed down the spit that had pooled in his cheeks and tried to speak. He had to. He couldn't--he just couldn't do it anymore, please, Pete, please-

Wade tried to bite his tongue as he spoke. Bite back the shame that came with uttering the stock-standard stoplight safeword, but he couldn't hear his father's words come out of Peter's mouth anymore. A hand was raised, waiting to strike his face, jaw open.

Wade swallowed, and closed his eyes.  
  
(Peter, please, please-)

Stop.

 

"Red."

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've never written these two so feedback is appreciated y'all  
> \-- also, this probs needs a pt. 2 with some well-needed aftercare, but i'll add that later when my brain is functioning.


	2. Chapter 2

They were in the bathroom.

Mama locked herself in there when Papa got angry, and started picking up the heavy things to throw. Sometimes Wade would be in there with her, clutching her hairbrush and running the bristles along his legs. Most of the times he'd hide in his bedroom. Staying with her just made him angrier. He'd bang the door harder and harder, kick the bottom so that the frame rattled, try to get in and pull Wade away from the comfort he wasn't allowed to have.  
There was something sticky on the floor, caught in the grout between the tiles, but these tiles were wrong- wrong colour, wrong shape.

Papa had a bottle. He could hear the glass hit something - his teeth, probably - before each loud swallow. Nights when he had a bottle were the worst ones. It meant Wade couldn't distract him easy, running from his bunk bed to the hall to the kitchen with Papa chasing, swearing, cursing after him, giving Mama time to sneak into the bathroom and lock the door, or to cover up her body or grab something to hit him back with.

One time Mama grabbed a knife from the kitchen drawer Wade wasn't allowed to touch, but Papa had snatched it away from her so quick she screamed, clutching her hand to her chest as blood seeped from her fingers into the fabric of her blouse. Papa dropped it and swooped her up and covered her with kisses, telling her he was so sorry and 'why was she so fuckin' dumb, coming at him with a fucking knife? He could've killed her. He oughta kill her.' Mama didn't try for the knife after that.

 

_"Wade-"_

 

They were in the bathroom, but the tiles were wrong. It was clean. Why was it clean? It was never clean. (It was his job to tidy it when he got home from school but he never did it right- always ended up getting slapped over the state of the house, Papa yelling in his face until he cried. He got slapped for that, too.) There were no millipedes curled and black in the corners of the room and the space itself was too wide and too bright.

_"Wade, baby-"_

Someone was talking to him, calling him baby, like his Mama always used to. She'd sing to him sometimes, too, on those night's Papa'd sit outside the door and say 'he wasn't moving till they done come out' and fall asleep out there, drunk, with them cold and cowering on the tiles, stuck until he got up and left for work in the morning.  
Someone was calling him baby but it wasn't his Mama - Mama was dead and long gone - and there were hands on the back of his neck just like--

"No!" Wade flinched forward and reared an arm back into whoever was behind him, but it was stopped by firm hands. Hard hands. Papa was rotting in a coffin with the bullet Wade put in his head, he knew that, but he was here, too, trying to grab him, hurt him. _Teach him a lesson--_

The hands formed arms and a body reached out again. Wade bent lower on his knees, turned just a little, and raised his fist. The punch was caught before it could land. The fingers that grazed his knuckles were soft, and tender, and Wade's brows knotted together because this wasn't how they felt. The tiles were wrong.

"Baby?"

Peter. It was Peter, _his_ Peter, and that fucking bastard was still dead and Peter wasn't going to hurt him. They were in the bathroom but this was Peter and he was safe and _fuck_.

"Peter?"

 

Relief swamped into those big eyes. "Yeah, Wade, it's me, it's Peter. You're safe."

Wade's fist dropped as he collapsed forward into his boyfriend, body heaving as sobs wracked their way up and out of his chest. The tears he felt burning under his eyelids spilled out, hot and heavy and ugly. The fist he'd made uncurled weakly. He'd tried to hit him, and instead of recoiling Peter was rubbing his back and breathing hot puffs of air into his neck and ear and kissing at the skin there. He didn't deserve the soothing calm Peter's presence brought him, but he clung to it anyway.

"I'm sorry, Pete." Wade's throat was dry and the words came out barely above a whisper, but Peter seemed to hear them fine. Of course he did.

The boy pulled back and held Wade at an arm's length. There was wetness on his cheeks. (Fuck, he'd made him cry.)  
"Holy fuck, Wade, baby. You're okay. You're here with me, okay? You're okay, you're alright, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry-"

"Pete." Wade curled his finger's around Peter's and held them tight enough to hurt. "It's fine."

Brown hair brushed over Peter's forehead as he shook his head. "You used your safeword, babe, you're not fine. I carried you to the bathroom to get some water on you cause you just wouldn't move or speak to me, I'm... I shouldn't have- I shouldn't have said those things, Wade, I'm- I'm sorry."

Wade smiled- a pathetic little thing, but he was trying. "I said you to say them, Pete. I just didn't know I'd react...that way. Seemed like a good idea at the time, huh?" He paused, frowned a little, unsure of how to bring up the things he didn't want to speak about.

"I nearly hit you" He said instead.

"And I stopped you. I'm completely unharmed. Spidey-Sense, remember?" Pete nudged him, smiling, and Wade knew he'd be okay.

His legs were wobbly when he stood (the tiles below his feet were brown and small and not at all similar) and let Peter lead him out into the lounge, where the cushion still rested on the floorboards. Peter picked it up by its corner and threw it onto the sofa behind him. He motioned vaguely at the sofa, meaning for him to sit down. Wade shifted on his feet. Peter looked at him, confused, then suddenly slapped a hand across his mouth.  
"Fuck, shit, Wade, the plug's still in, isn't it?"

Wade nodded.

"Fuck. Do you want...You're not hard, but do you want me to...?"

He shook his head. He didn't want to play anymore. Didn't think he could take it after practically vomiting repressed memories onto Pete's hoodie, his own tears rubbing into the same fabric.

"Alright baby, hold on a sec. I'll be right back and we'll get you all cosy in your Spidey pyjamas. Can you stay there for just a minute, baby?"

Wade nodded again, eager to please after he fucked up their playtime so badly, and stood in place until his baby boy came back with his favourite PJ's - grey ones with chibi Spider-Man's all over - and a box of baby wipes stacked on top. He placed the pyjamas to the side, then took his free hand and held it out.

"Spread your legs, baby?" And Wade did.

The cold fingers at his entrance were expected, but still a shock. Peter chuckled at Wade's soft 'ah', which earned him a light smack on the head. He rubbed softly but firmly around the base until the skin started to give, then gently worked the plug out.

"Nearly done, babe. You're doing so well for me." Pete praised, wiping at his hole and thighs with a baby wipe before pressing a quick kiss to the back of one leg. "There you go. Want me to dress you?"

Wade nodded eagerly, held his hands up for Pete to slip the top over his body, then lifted one foot for Peter to put his pants on.

"You don't want underwear?" Peter asked, holding up a pair of plain boxers.

"I want you." Wade countered, and wiggled his foot. "C'mon, I wanna snuggle."

Peter pressed another kiss to his knuckles, then his brow, and stepped Wade into his pants, snapping the elastic at his hips once they were up.

 

He could see it so clearly on his face when he looked up that Pete wanted to talk about it. Wanted to go through the scene and find out what he said that was wrong and what he could have done to help better and did he have another flashback? Wade...didn't want to let him.

Selfish, maybe, but he didn't think he could stomach another thought about what happened in the bathroom ( _the_ bathroom), so he grabbed at Peter's arms and dragged them both backwards onto the sofa. It was old, and stained, and dipped into the centre where Wade always sat, but it was exactly what he needed. Thin arms snaked around his waist and held him tight against the warm body behind him. Safe. He was safe.

He turned to his side and pushed his back further against Pete's chest, smiling when the boy tucked his face into his neck and hummed.

"I love you, Pete. You know that, right?" He murmured into Peter's arm.

The humming stopped, and Peter was quiet for a minute. His breath and lips were warm against the junction of Wade's neck and shoulder, chin tucked against the fabric of his PJ's.

When Peter spoke, his voice was barely audible. His lips moved across his neck and placed tiny kissed there, stopping at each dip and ridge of scar tissue and adding another kiss.  
He was like honey. Slow and languid, sweet lips and gold eyes.

"I know, Wade." The words were pressed with a kiss into the back of his head, and if Wade was ever broken he swears Peter could fucking fix him faster than the mutation in his blood. "I love you, too. I'm so proud of you. I love you, I love you."

 

Peter let him lay in silence for a while, stroking his hands and humming songs in his ear, before he suggested switching the TV on for some Golden Girls.

"No," Wade mumbled, "I just want you."

He pressed his smile into Wade's shoulder, and nodded.

"Okay, Wade. I'm here. You got me."

 

_"I love you, Wade. You know that, right? And when I'm gone away, there'll be other people that'll love you, too. So much. You don't listen to anything your Papa says, because he doesn't see you with my eyes. You're so loved, Wade. So loved."  
_

_Her words were soft and warm, and sweet like honey._

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had no idea how to follow up the first half, so this is what came out.  
> tell me how i did? criticise or send love notes, i accept all with my short and uncoordinated fingers.


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